


A United Front

by Phosphorescent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (and I'll freely admit that D&D frequently write them as idiots for Plot/Drama), ...except for when they ARE of course, Arguing & Making Up, Canon Compliant, Episode Tag, Episode Tag: s07e01 Dragonstone, Gen, Jon Snow Is Not Stupid, Missing Scene, Sansa Stark Is Not Stupid, Self-Esteem Issues, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Westerosi Politics, but the key here is that both of their stances contain valid points & flaws, post-ep, s07e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11711064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorescent/pseuds/Phosphorescent
Summary: Love by itself did not guarantee loyalty; Sansa had learnedthatall too well.The North had loved the Starks: it had loved her father and it had loved her older brother, Robb. But that love had not saved either of them… and it had not saved her, even when she was being tortured within the walls of Winterfell itself. It certainly hadn't saved poor Rickon.Love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear, but there needed to besomefear there.





	A United Front

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I finally gave in and wrote fic for this fandom. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Make note of which parts of their argument Sansa and Jon resolve here and which they _don't_ ; I revised wide swaths of this fic after seeing 7x02 to keep it within the bounds of canon. Hopefully I've succeeded in that... and in capturing Jon and Sansa's dynamic. As with the show itself, the question of whether there's anything going on here beyond the purely familial is up to your personal interpretation.
> 
> Thanks to some weird decisions on D&D's part re: the degree to which the North actually "remembers"/feels loyalty to the Starks at this point (read: almost 0% except for when it lets them hold plot convenient grudges)--thus undermining and even reversing that theme from the books, by the way--the audience and characters are forced to be more nihilistic and/or to hold some truly contradictory notions about the legacy of the Starks in their heads at the same time. So if my take on this subject comes across as confusing, that's why. 
> 
> Also, despite the way the show has always preferred to frame it and what a large portion of the fandom seems to believe, Ned Stark did _not_ die primarily because he was 'noble but stupid' and too hidebound by his sense of honor--[this isn't true in the book](https://racefortheironthrone.wordpress.com/2013/09/09/chapter-by-chapter-analysis-eddard-xiii/) and [it isn't true in the show](http://turtle-paced.tumblr.com/post/133990868532/got-re-watch-fine-toothed-comb-edition). However, this fic plays that misconception straight, because Sansa and Jon certainly don't know that! ;-)
> 
> I'm still getting a feel for these characters' voices, so please don't hesitate to tell me if any of their dialogue feels off to you. Constructive criticism --> better fics for you to read in the future, after all. That said, feedback of all sorts is always highly appreciated!  
> 

 

 

Sansa knew better than to argue with a monarch - even one so tolerant as Jon - in public; really, she did.

But when she’d heard that the Karstarks and the Umbers were to receive _no consequences_ for their treason, something in her had snapped.

 

_(“So there’s no punishment for treason and no reward for loyalty.”_

_She was peripherally aware that the hall had fallen silent, but she was too lost in her frustration and fears to care._

_If he went through with this, the lords would eat them alive. Perhaps not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but eventually. The North remembered, after all._

_Jon, his face solemn and frustrated: “The punishment for treason is death. Smalljon Umber died on the field of battle. Harold Karstark died on the field of battle.”_

_He considered that_ punishment _?_

_Death in battle was death in battle, nothing more and nothing less. If anything, it was a luxury… one that had not been granted to any of her own dead family members._

_“They died_ fighting for Ramsey _. Give the castles to the families of men who died fighting for_ you _.”)_

 

She’d grown too comfortable, Sansa supposed. Careless.

Perhaps it was to be expected, going from the Lannisters and the Boltons, where one wrong word meant torture or death, to a place where it was comparatively safe to speak her mind.

Still, it had been a stupid mistake.

 _Of course_ , that small, nasty voice in her head whispered, _Jon made a stupid mistake first. He might have talked to you about his decision in private beforehand if he didn’t want a public display. He might have talked to you earlier if he’d truly valued your opinion._

And there was the rub, wasn’t it?

She sighed, mind drifting to the warm, guilty ember of satisfaction she’d felt when the lords in the Hall had pounded on the tables in agreement with her.

She didn’t want power at the cost of undermining Jon, but if she enjoyed being _appreciated_ … well, was that so very wrong? Was it so wrong of her to want to keep him – to keep _them_ – safe?

Of course, she might have had the people’s momentary appreciation, but Jon… Jon had their respect. Jon had their love.

In the tense, quiet moment when young Lord Umber and Lady Karstark had pledged their fealty to House Stark, she had felt the mood of the room shift.

 _The Ned come again_ , she’d heard more than one lord whisper.

And although she _knew_ it wasn’t fair to Jon, she couldn’t help the faint curdling of resentment in the pit of her stomach.

Sansa could save them all, could do _everything right_ , but they’d still always prefer Jon Snow to her. They’d always choose the bastard with Ned Stark’s looks and a sword in his hand over a woman with Southron looks – trueborn heir or no – who’d been forced into marriages that none of them had lifted a hand to save her from but were all too eager to judge her for afterwards.

It was right that Jon had the love and respect of his subjects, of course. Jon was a good man; he deserved it.

But although love was crucial to a ruler’s success, it could only do so much alone, and respect would not last if they came to think him weak.

Love by itself did not guarantee loyalty. Sansa had learned  _that_ all too well… and not just from her time in King’s Landing.

The North had loved the Starks: it had loved her father and it had loved her older brother, Robb. But that love had not saved either of them… and it had not saved her, even when she was being tortured within the walls of Winterfell itself. It certainly hadn't saved poor Rickon. Not a one of the Houses had come forth of their own initiative to overthrow the usurping Boltons, and when she and Jon had asked their aid, most of them had refused the call.

Love was a surer route to the people’s loyalty than fear, but there needed must be _some_ fear there.

And letting two Houses get away with treason sent a _very_ clear message.

Sansa was no Lannister – she wasn’t advocating for the _annihilation_ of the Karstarks and Umbers. All she was asking was that they answer for their treason through a loss of their castles… castles that, in the case of the Karstarks, had in fact been given to them by the Starks as a reward - a reward for their loyal service in helping to overthrow a treasonous lord, no less! - centuries ago.

It was hardly cruel and hardly without precedent, yet Jon had looked at her as though she had suggested he take up kicking puppies.

It stung.

_(“You almost sound as if you admire her.”)_

Sometimes she wondered that herself…

“Sansa.”

She looked up at the man who’d just walked through the door.

“Jon,” she said.

“You’re still angry,” he said.

She pursed her lips, biting back her immediate response.

“I think,” she said, voice measured, “that you are a good man; brave and gentle and strong. You have good instincts for ruling – really, you do – and you’re oddly charismatic for someone who's so sullen.”

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand and cut him off.

“I also think,” she said, “that good men are not always good kings. Their inherent decency often means that they make decisions that are merciful in the moment, but that create more pain and bloodshed in the long run. You understand the war fought on the battlefield, Jon… _I_ understand the war waged in castle halls and chambers. _Let me help you_.”

“What do you _think_ I’ve been doing?” he asked, Northern burr pronounced from irritation.

“Yes,” Sansa said bitterly, “you’ve made _that_ very clear. How am I to avoid questioning you in public if you won’t discuss your decisions with me in private first? Am I just supposed to voice my disagreement with you after the fact?”

“I knew you would disagree, Sansa, and I didn’t feel like a fight. My mind was already made up. What purpose would telling you have served?”

“Did it never occur to you that I might have _good reasons_ to disagree with you? That you might change your mind after hearing those reasons?”

“They’re _children_ , Sansa; children who have done nothing save have the misfortune of being born to parents who chose to commit treason. What ‘good reasons’ could possibly be compelling enough to punish innocents?”

“This isn't _about_ the two of them,” Sansa said, “Not really. The new Lord Umber and Lady Karstark may not have committed treason, but I can assure you that the adults around them did… and not all of those adults ‘died on the field of battle’. Who do you think will be _advising_ them, Jon? Children, even ones clever and well intentioned, are ripe for manipulation from experienced adults. Forgiving their families' treachery without attaching any consequences to that treachery may have been noble, but it was also stupid.”

“It’s what father would have done.”

His shoulders were squared and his long face set mulishly.

“Even _Father_ took Theon as a hostage!” Sansa sputtered.

“A different situation,” Jon said dismissively.

“That’s my _point_ ,” Sansa said, exasperation growing. Her hands were balled into fists at her side, nails tight enough against the tender flesh to draw a thin line of blood. It absently occurred to her that she’d need to keep her gloves on at dinner tonight if she were to hide this evidence of her weakness. “Things have changed since Father was Lord of Winterfell. When Father was Lord, our family’s position was secure; Father could _afford_ to be lenient. And when the circumstances shifted and Father still tried to do the noble thing… he _died_ , Jon. I _will not lose another family member_ ; do you understand me? Not when there’s something I can do about it.”

“So you’ll stoop to Cersei’s level instead,” Jon said flatly. “Sansa, Alys Karstark and Ned Umber aren’t that far in age from your own when Father was declared a traitor to the Crown and the Lannisters held you responsible for his actions. Why would you wish that on them?”

_How dare he –_

“It has nothing to do with what I _wish_ ,” Sansa snapped. “Nothing has been about what I _wish_ since I saw Father beheaded in front of me. This is about _justice_. This is about _survival_.”

“ _Your_ version of justice,” Jon said, throwing an arm out in emphasis. “ _Your_ belief of what will guarantee our survival.”

“The _realm’s_ version of justice,” Sansa countered. “And between the two of us, _I’m_ the one who hasn’t been killed by their own men, so I think my word on the subject of survival should count for something.”

He drew back as though he had been slapped.

Sansa was sorry for hurting him, but she needed to get through to him.

And if a small, dark part of her wanted him to feel what it was like to have the shoe on the other foot? To show him that she knew his vulnerabilities as well as he knew hers?

Well, that was her own business.

“Besides,” she added, “Father may have been accused of treason, but he was innocent. The Umbers and the Karstarks were _not_.”

“And that justifies stripping children of their homes? That justifies making enemies of centuries-old allies?”

His voice rose in disbelief as he spoke.

“ _They_ were the ones who chose to set themselves against _us_ ,” Sansa reminded him crisply. “For Gods’ sakes, Jon, I’m not saying you should have executed the children, but if their Houses don’t pay for their treason now, we’ll be the ones paying for it later. You didn’t just let them keep their castles – you let them keep their castles with _no conditions attached_ or even apology demanded!"

“Their _parents_ committed treason, not them,” he said.

“And had their parents succeeded, they would have _benefitted_ from that treason,” Sansa said, “and _we_ would have been dead. But I can see you won’t listen to me; I’m just a silly little girl, after all. What would _I_ know?"

"Sansa -"

She turned on her heel and strode from the room, ignoring his calls after her.

 

 

Jon found her in the Godswood the following morning.

The sky was pale and cloudless, its muted grey light lending the whole scene a faintly dreamlike air. Every sound seemed magnified in the hush. Her heartbeat was a drum tattoo; the snow and leaves crunching under Jon's feet, a series of small explosions.

His breath misted in the cold air, intermingling with her own, as they stood together in silence.

Finally, Jon spoke.

“I shouldn’t have brought up your time in King’s Landing,” he said, tone earnest if a bit stiff.

 _No, you shouldn't have,_ she thought, but she did not say it aloud.

“You weren’t entirely wrong about the Karstarks and the Umbers,” she said instead, forcing the words out of her mouth. It was a conclusion she’d reached after a good night’s sleep and more than a little self-reflection. That didn’t make their taste any the less bitter, however. “If we spare their lives but strip them of their castles, they’ll only come to resent us. We can’t afford yet _another_ rebellion down the line.”

“ _Thank_ you,” he said.

“ _However_ ,” Sansa said, careful not to use the word ‘but’, as it had provoked such a strong response in him before, “ _I_ wasn’t entirely wrong either, you know. You had other options. You could have let the Karstarks and Umbers keep their castles, but taken a portion of their lands and gifted them to lords who fought for us. You could have had both children fostered as wards in trustworthy Houses and restored them to their homes after they’d come of age and proven their loyalty. You could have arranged marriages for them with loyal but lesser Houses – or even with members of the Free Folk! You could have insisted that maintaining their homes was contingent upon sending all surviving men who fought against us to the Wall and upon accepting certain advisors. Must I go on?”

He let out a deep sigh.

“No,” he said grudgingly, eyes fixed firmly on the face of the heart tree they stood beneath. “You’re… not wrong."

"You said it yourself - we have too many enemies now to show any weakness," she said. "The two of us need to provide a united front. But I can't do that if you don't consult me beforehand."

 _I can't do that if you don't_ trust _me._

“Aye,” he said, face morose and shoulders slumped as though under a weight heavier than mere armor and furs. After a brief pause, he added, "I know you can look after yourself. But while you may not need my help, you have it anyway. I swore to protect you, Sansa, and I intend to keep that promise."

The sentiment was sweet, but she was through with letting other people - no matter how highly they valued her - make decisions in her stead. Besides, Jon didn't have room to talk; not while he still refused to give her the tools she needed to protect him in return... the tools she needed to protect them both.

Sansa was about to say as much when he turned and met her eyes for a moment in emphasis.

_Oh._

Until she had found Jon at Castle Black, she had nearly forgotten what it was like to have someone care about her like this - so sincerely, with no ulterior motives or expectations. It made it very difficult to remain cross with him, no matter how legitimate her reasons.

Besides, he looked nearly as tired as she felt.

Her hand twitched with a sudden, strange impulse to smooth away the creases on his forehead.

“I meant what I said, you know,” she told him.

“Which bit?” Jon asked, voice only a little dry.

She gave in to the much safer but equally strong urge to elbow him and he let out an exaggerated _oooph_ of pain.

“You’re a good man. Father would be proud of you.”

His eyes warmed.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said. “I know he’d be proud of you too.”

She let out a faint, self-deprecating snort.

“He would,” Jon insisted. “If it weren't for you, I’d be somewhere in the South, mayhap, or dead on a battlefield just a stone’s throw from our home. But you? You never gave up, Sansa. Winterfell is back in Stark hands because of _you_ , and you think Father wouldn’t be proud of you?”

Sansa shrugged uncomfortably.

“Maybe if I hadn’t been such a _stupid_ little girl, he'd still be alive to tell us the truth of it himself,” she said.

Jon frowned.

“That’s not the first time you’ve used that phrase,” he said. “Sansa, you were never stupid. Naïve, certainly, but you were a _child_. We were all children. Father tried to teach us better, but...”

“Sometimes he protected us a bit too much,” Sansa said. “Both he and Mother.”

Jon nodded reluctantly, and when he spoke, his voice was contemplative.

“When the songs claimed that all knights were true and all royalty deserving - when the songs claimed that the Night’s Watch was an honorable brotherhood - they never really tried to disabuse us, did they?”

That was another thing…

“Your men were wrong to kill you,” Sansa said. “I never meant to imply otherwise. I just… you have to be _careful_ , Jon. I can’t be the only one again.”

Jon’s lips twisted wryly.

“Maester Aemon on the Wall said once that a Targaryen alone in the world was a terrible thing. I suppose that’s true of our family too.”

“Not alone anymore,” Sansa said, gathering her courage and slipping her hand into his.

His palm and fingers were calloused and scarred, but warm.

They felt like an anchor. They felt like home.

“Aye,” Jon said, his smile becoming less pained. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Not anymore.”


End file.
